The poetical works of George MacDonald Volume Ii Part 40

Mysterious moment! When or how Is the bewildering change begun?

Hid in far deeps the awful now When turns his being to the sun!

A light goes up behind his eyes, A still small voice behind his ears; A listing wind about him sighs, And lo the inner landscape clears!

Hid by that screen, a wondrous s.h.i.+ne Is gathering for a sweet surprise; As Moses grew, in dark divine, Too radiant for his people's eyes.

For when the garment sinks again, Outbeams a brow of heavenly wile, Clear as a morning after rain, And sunny with a perfect smile.

Oh, would that I the secret knew Of hiding from my evil part, And turning to the lovely true The open windows of my heart!

Lord, in thy skirt, love's tender gaol, Hide thou my selfish heart's disgrace; Fill me with light, and then unveil To friend and foe a friendly face.

_THE PRISM_.

I.

A pool of broken sunbeams lay Upon the pa.s.sage-floor, Radiant and rich, profound and gay As ever diamond bore.

Small, flitting hands a handkerchief Spread like a cunning trap: p.r.o.ne lay the gorgeous jewel-sheaf In the glory-gleaner's lap!

Deftly she folded up the prize, With lovely avarice; Like one whom having had made wise, She bore it off in bliss.

But ah, when for her prisoned gems She peeped, to prove them there, No glories broken from their stems Lay in the kerchief bare!

For still, outside the nursery door, The bright persistency, A molten diadem on the floor, Lay burning wondrously.

II.

How oft have I laid fold from fold And peered into my mind-- To see of all the purple and gold Not one gleam left behind!

The best of gifts will not be stored: The manna of yesterday Has filled no sacred miser-h.o.a.rd To keep new need away.

Thy grace, O Lord, it is thyself; Thy presence is thy light; I cannot lay it on my shelf, Or take it from thy sight.

For daily bread we daily pray-- The want still breeds the cry; And so we meet, day after day, Thou, Father in heaven, and I.

Is my house dreary, wall and floor, Will not the darkness flit, I go outside my shadowy door And in thy rainbow sit.

_SLEEP_.

Oh! is it Death that comes To have a foretaste of the whole?

To-night the planets and the stars Will glimmer through my window-bars But will not s.h.i.+ne upon my soul!

For I shall lie as dead Though yet I am above the ground; All pa.s.sionless, with scarce a breath, With hands of rest and eyes of death, I shall be carried swiftly round.

Or if my life should break The idle night with doubtful gleams, Through mossy arches will I go, Through arches ruinous and low, And chase the true and false in dreams.

Why should I fall asleep?

When I am still upon my bed The moon will s.h.i.+ne, the winds will rise And all around and through the skies The light clouds travel o'er my head!

O busy, busy things, Ye mock me with your ceaseless life!

For all the hidden springs will flow And all the blades of gra.s.s will grow When I have neither peace nor strife.

And all the long night through The restless streams will hurry by; And round the lands, with endless roar, The white waves fall upon the sh.o.r.e, And bit by bit devour the dry.

Even thus, but silently, Eternity, thy tide shall flow, And side by side with every star Thy long-drawn swell shall bear me far, An idle boat with none to row.

My senses fail with sleep; My heart beats thick; the night is noon; And faintly through its misty folds I hear a drowsy clock that holds Its converse with the waning moon.

Oh, solemn mystery That I should be so closely bound With neither terror nor constraint, Without a murmur of complaint, And lose myself upon such ground!

_SHARING_.

On the far horizon there Heaps of cloudy darkness rest; Though the wind is in the air There is stupor east and west.

For the sky no change is making, Scarce we know it from the plain; Droop its eyelids never waking, Blinded by the misty rain;

Save on high one little spot, Round the baffled moon a s.p.a.ce Where the tumult ceaseth not: Wildly goes the midnight race!

And a joy doth rise in me Upward gazing on the sight, When I think that others see In yon clouds a like delight;

How perchance an aged man Struggling with the wind and rain, In the moonlight cold and wan Feels his heart grow young again;

As the cloudy rack goes by, How the life-blood mantles up Till the fountain deep and dry Yields once more a sparkling cup.

Or upon the gazing child Cometh down a thought of glory Which will keep him undefiled Till his head is old and h.o.a.ry.

For it may be he hath woke And hath raised his fair young form; Strangely on his eyes have broke All the splendours of the storm;

And his young soul forth doth leap With the storm-clouds in the moon; And his heart the light will keep Though the vision pa.s.seth soon.

Thus a joy hath often laughed On my soul from other skies, Bearing on its wings a draught From the wells of Paradise,

For that not to me alone Comes a splendour out of fear; Where the light of heaven hath shone There is glory far and near.

_IN BONDS_.

Of the poor bird that cannot fly Kindly you think and mournfully; For prisoners and for exiles all You let the tears of pity fall; And very true the grief should be That mourns the bondage of the free.

The soul--_she_ has a fatherland; Binds _her_ not many a tyrant's hand?